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Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And ****!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Quinn's is pub in Camden. Armitage Shanks a ****** & toilet manufacturer.
You broke me.
Why can't you fix me?
Did the pieces cut your feet?
Did the porcelain make you bleed?
I know. It hurts, right?
The sting left inside at night?
And bandaids don't heal it,
they just made you cry,
Because you can't really fix it,
and you can't really fight.
And I understand the absence,
the advancements in my head,
A unique side to seeing,
a life trembling in death.
As I am standing,
to prove I'm awake,
How much more pain,
am I able to take?
That's what you can't see;
the more I am feeling,
The less I am free-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated.
Sorry it's so sad.
Leal Knowone Jul 2016
Her pale porcelain skin scorched my mind
its imprint was all I could see
Such innocent hidden behind a jaded mind
Such beauty underneath

Her immaculate body longing to be smeared by my finger tips
Holding her close, keeping her safe, in suspended bliss
SAFETY it was found that night, right between her legs
Like trees aching for light, stretched to the sky, she begs

Inquiring on journeys before embark
her imprint was left on me
seeing  beauty in every cut and every mark
Such artistry to be seen    
I could deal with near pitch black, as long as there was enough light to dance, and glisten off her angelic eyes
SAFETY it was found that night, right between her thighs
sara Dec 2018
i sit across from you
as if at a dinner party
but I think we both know that’s exactly the reason that i’m here now
you lure me in
whispering promises and secrets
“it’ll be just between us” you say to me
“after this, you’ll be beautiful”
i believe you
i start to give in, lean forward, close my eyes
stop it.
they’re lies!
tears are streaming down my face
i fall back with a whimper
you’re turning mean now
“you’ll never be pretty if you keep at this”
“you’re not worthy”
i’m shaking i’m sobbing i’m scared
i thought i was the one in control
i thought i had the power
but now you’ve stripped me of that and everything else i once was
i have nothing left now except for you
you, my porcelain savior
Jonathan Moya Sep 28
Our marriage is old enough to vote now
and on this our porcelain anniversary
I vote “Yes, I do,”  over and over again.

A score of fine filigree plates I will gift us,
two broken to match the fragile times,
the eighteen days past the towers fall
when we married amidst grief and joy.

Our Noritake sacraments survives the bombings
of a blasted world, the cracking, fractures,
the buffing of our mistakes to a translucent
perfection, all frozen details rimmed with gold.

Cancer is etched on the lip, but so
is cure, joy, longevity, beauty, respect,
and the watermark underneath, our keepsake
forever, irreplaceable love.
Kristen is my second wife. We got married  eighteen days after 9-11, when the twin towers of the World Trade Center fell in a terrorist attack on September 11,  2001. Thus if you do the math of the second stanza you get one score. (20) minus two = 18. Eighteen days past 9/11 makes the date September 29, 2001.

  It is also our eighteenth anniversary.  The irony of that number in our lives today was too good to leave out of the  Poem.  

The typical gift for an 18th wedding anniversary is porcelain.  Thus China and Noritake reference.  

For those aware of history the Noritake factory was bombed and destroyed by Allied planes in WOrld War Two.  Only the China it produced survived the bombing. © 9 hours ago,
I always seem to place myself in your hands like a porcelain doll.
Ready to be placed on a wooden shelf.
But your hands always wither to the touch of my glass skin.
I am real to most but when it comes to you I am a rose petal ready to be plucked to see if you "like me, like me not"
But that shelf has become molded overtime and the cracks on my glass skin have begun to show.
Your hands are not my sanctuary anymore. You left me alone and on display except for when you needed me.
Except for when that curiosity in your mind said "grab her"
But she is not yours anymore
Her glass skin has become more human by the day. Until suddenly she stood by herself and walked away.
Ready to be her own sanctuary .
PoserPersona Jul 2018
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
Silverflame Oct 2018
The porcelain bird flew so very high
until its neck encountered with the ground.
From the windowsill to the edge of night
it died alone; with no one else around.
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
Last time I was here I was waiting
For the perfect storm to come
I saw it from the cafe
And under lightning, I had to run
As the porcelain lay broken
Under the feet of weary eyes
Last time I was here I was waiting
For somebody to make me cry

Last time I was here I was burning
Under strangely colored lights
If only I did some learning
From all the previous wasted nights
And as I tried to forget the voices
That never seem to go away
Last time I was here I was burning
But I tell everyone I'm okay

Last time I was here I was broken
Like I've never been before
I can still smell the smoke and,
I can still hear the door
But as I still remember
All the things from before
Last time I was here I was broken
I'm not broken anymore
DivineDao Jun 2016
Cannot be found
In the map of my mind

Would be a nice
Holiday resort for the record

Tea in a ***
Cannot get triangular
In porcelain, iron or ***.
zumee Jul 2018
My mouth
is a loaded gun
pointed straight
at your porcelain head
to shoot flowering words
into that beautiful,
empty thought-vase
I saw a trigger warning on hp and got #triggered into writing something.
Ali Apr 12
the finest china
pure white porcelain
lined with subtle, silver strokes
soundlessly sleeps through seasons
only to wake on special occasion

the finest china, she was told
must remain untouched
unearthed by the folly of freedom
free from scratches and scars
always in fear of falling apart

so, she wrapped herself tightly
in faded newspaper
laid herself gently
on the topmost shelf
rested in dust and cobwebs

through the glass cabinet door
his eyes were blinded
by a dazzling display of perfection
he held her by the edges –
porcelain paradise in reckless palms

no longer is she
afraid of falling
in every direction
carelessly playing
with wild, wild winds

each fall bears a new
crack in her core
and renews in golden lining
until the day
she is pure gold
I always found it funny how something so beautiful could be kept and locked up for long, in attempt to preserve its beauty. In contrast to fine china, Japanese culture embraces transcience and imperfection—often times, by filling the gaps of chipped off ceramics with gold to enhance its beauty.
This is something I deeply live by. I’m Ali, and i’m new here. Hi.
Jasmine dryer Nov 2018
yes i'm sorry
all I wanted was to fix you
to fix you
but now your more broken then before
I just I wanted was for you to last longer
and be a little stronger
but I failed
I failed
but I will fail you no more
for your porcelain skin is to cracked
and your dress isn't even intact
and when I step back
and place you back on the shelf
I think of all that we've dealt with
and this toymaker
sad as i may be
have put you  away
i'm sorry
my black haired porcelain beauty
Anne J Oct 2018
Strings, strings, wrapping around porcelain skin,
For why does the bruises not show?
With a waist, hip, and two legs that are so thin,
For why does the skin always glow?
Hair that never sheds, nor grows, nor messes,
For why does the girl not wash it?
With a merry face that still never truly expresses,
For why does the face not show even a slight fit?
Stoic, conjoined, the feet never stomping,
For why does the limbs never feel frostbit?
Perhaps it is a lie that the being is a girl,
As it is only with strings that she can ever twirl.
I did this about two weeks ago, as the poem you gotta send in order to the join the site. I hope y'all liked it. Does this count as a Halloween story?
Jonathan Witte Jun 2017
His wife is as
assiduous as
a mother bird.

She keeps
the windows
clean with rags
and buckets
of vinegar and
steaming water.

What happens here.

He sweeps
the ceiling
and ponders
the meaning
of the word

There are
spent fussing
over underused
demitasse sets.

What happens here.

There are
on the front
porch glider,

watching clouds
attenuate across
a porcelain sky.

What happens here.

The smallest
sounds never
fail to surprise

How sparrows fold
like feathered paper
below rectangles
of polished air.

*What happens here,
happens over there.
King Panda Nov 2017
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
be gone…

you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
bekka walker Apr 2014
Skin milky soft against golden brown light nudging you awake.
Hair jet black against a porcelain complexion.
Angular face throwing shadows onto my body as the sun licks it up.
Grumpily turn your back.
I see now, You are a morning flower m'love.
You may not know it,
and you may not like it,
You're quick to bloom,
and soon to wilt,
I'm sorry I plucked you,
I'm sorry I killed you,
I didn't know you were but only a morning flower m'love.
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